


reason to kill a man

by Ejunkiet



Category: Daredevil (TV), Mob City
Genre: Mob City AU oneshot collection, New York City - Hell's Kitchen, The Mob City AU, mentions of violence: punisher style
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-07-29 20:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7698715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ejunkiet/pseuds/Ejunkiet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Frank takes to the war the same way he'd taken to sex that first time, grass stains on his knees and the back of Maria's dress as they had tumbled onto the green after prom. Christ, that night she had been beautiful; he could hardly keep his hands off of her. </i>
</p><p>  <i>And much in the same way she did, the war changes him. The war changed everybody, but while others could smooth the edges, continue on with some semblance of normalcy, he couldn’t. His changes were stark, obvious, gaping wounds that he can't pull closed no matter how many stitches he crosses over them.</i></p><p>  <i>He doesn't blame Maria for leaving him, not after the shit she'd been through; no, he places the blame for that squarely on himself.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part one: reason to kill a man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evil_bunny_king](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_bunny_king/gifts).



> The Mob City AU that nobody asked for. This is a selection of one shots within a Mob City AU verse. This was _really_ fun to write. 
> 
> Part one leads on directly from the end of season one of Mob City, with a Punisher twist.

Don't shit where you eat.

That was rule number one, the easiest in the book and by far the simplest to follow.

The barrel of the rifle is hot beneath Frank’s grip as he makes his way back to the car, eyes keen on the street, the yards and windows, checking his angles, keeping an eye out for any movement. It’s a quiet neighbourhood, residential, the kind with rows upon rows of brightly coloured houses, little pockets of the ‘American Dream’ cookie-cuttered from the glossy cover of a magazine, and in the early hours of the morning, the streets are deserted.

No witnesses.

He slips into the front seat of the car, collecting the shell casings from his pocket to slot into the glove compartment before shifting his attention to the rifle. It’s still warm, but it’s more bearable to touch now and he begins the process of dismantling it, methodically unpacking and cleaning the pieces, before wrapping the whole thing up in a blanket beneath the backseat.

Then, and only then, does he allow himself to stop and consider what he’s done.

The Blacksmith was dead. All it'd taken was one shot. Frank had plugged him with fourteen, just to be sure.

He'd fucked it up. He'd let his emotions get the better of him and he'd fucked it up; he knew it, and Red knew it too. Didn't matter what they'd been through together, the shit they'd done in the war; there was only so much Murdock could do when the gangs were involved, and in the end, he was just a lawyer.

One man against the full force of the gangs of Hell's Kitchen; he'd never stand a chance. Frank's grip tightens on the wheel until his knuckles gleam white through the skin.

It doesn't take long for the squeal of tires to hit the tarmac, the wail of sirens piercing in the silence as the lights begin to come on in the windows of the neighbouring houses. The street fills with a confluence of cars and bodies as the city's best fill the block and curious neighbours filter into their yards, but Frank can't say he regrets it. He can still feel the weight of the rifle in his grip, sure and steady and _right_  as he'd taken aim, and he wouldn't be able to avoid the consequences; but it was worth it to see the look of surprise on that bastard's face before Frank had splattered his brains across his expensive leather upholstery.

There was no guarantee that the events of tonight would have gone down any differently if they'd tried it Red's way. He listens to the wail of sirens grow closer, keeping an eye on the street, the house. Nobody moves, nobody gets out, and if it weren't for the sirens and his intimate knowledge of what'd just happened there, he could almost mistake it for any other another Saturday night.

He's ready when the glare of headlamps sweep over his car, ducking his head below the dash until the first responders have passed, careening into yard outside the house. He waits until another one has passed, and another, before he twists the key and guns the engine, flicking on his lamps as he peels away from the curb, cutting a sharp right into the maelstrom of cars and people. Right back into the thick of it.

His badge glinting at his hip, he shoulders his way through the crowd until he reaches the other members of his squad, the local district PD looking exhausted as they take in the extent of the carnage before them. One of the greenies, Sims, takes one look at the mess and crumples, falling backwards in a dead faint and it's only the fast thinking of his partner that keeps him from hitting the floor.

"Lord almighty. It's too early for this shit." He turns away from the scene to find that the chief of police has joined him, hat grasped limply within his hands as he cards his fingers through his hair, and he looks just as exhausted as the rest of them. He takes one look at Frank and has to double take. "Christ, Castle. What happened to you?"

The stitches feel tight on his brow, as if his skin is a size too small, and he chances a glance at the mirror on the wall. It looks just about as bad as he expected; nose broken, dark purple bruises smudging around both of eyes

He stretches his mouth into an approximation of a smile. "You should see the other guy."

The chief laughs. "Yeah, I bet. Well, your head better be in the game; this is going to be a long night."

He looks down at the body. "Glad somebody finally took that scumbag out."

"Yeah, well, Looks like it was an outside job. Took out that entire window there," he points to the gaping hole in the wall, jagged shards of glass cutting into the air like wounds. "He's trained; probably ex-military. Likely decorated, with a shot like that."

Frank hums, ducking his head to get a clearer shot of the room; there are no other casualties that he can see, just Schoonover, or what was left of him. Good. "The war left a lot of men like that around. Reckon one of ‘em got tired of sitting around and decided to take matters into their own hands."

The chief lets out a low laugh. "Fat lot of good that'll do. The mob is a hydra: cut off its head and two more ugly bastards will rise up to take its place."

He shakes his head, scrubbing his hands through his hair once more before turning to face Frank, and the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You see Castle, all this is going to do is bring down more violence. Stir up the gangs; descend the city into chaos once again.”

Replacing his hat, he turns to face the front of the building, letting out a low sharp breath. “And now it’s my job to explain the situation to the press. God help us all.”

\--

Frank takes to the war the same way he'd taken to sex that first time, grass stains on his knees and the back of Maria's dress as they had tumbled onto the green after prom. Christ, that night she had been beautiful; he could hardly keep his hands off of her. 

And much in the same way she did, the war changes him. The war changed everybody, but while others could smooth the edges, continue on with some semblance of normalcy, he couldn’t. His changes were stark, obvious, gaping wounds that he can't pull closed no matter how many stitches he crosses over them.

He doesn't blame Maria for leaving him, not after the shit she'd been through; no, he places the blame for that squarely on himself.


	2. the war to end all wars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Frank doesn't remember much from that night._

Frank doesn’t remember much from that night.

That fact didn't surprise him. Since he’d come back from the war, he’d had difficulty sleeping; waking up in the middle of the night with no memory of where he was, lost within a blend of dream and fantasy that veered too close to reality.

Some nights, he was in New York sharing a bed with the woman he loved, his arms wound around her, wondering at the miracle that was the news that she was a few short months into her pregnancy.

Some nights, he was still in the War. 

_\- the sound of waves breaking against the portside of the ship._

_The spray of ocean foam through the small window set into the bulkhead above._

_The quiet gasp of the man in the bunk above him as his throat was cut --_

That night he’d been somewhere off the coast of Nagasaki, deep in the bowels of a warship that he could no longer recall the name of. The garbled cry of his bunkmate startles him awake; the ship has been infiltrated, an insurgent from the mainland has managed the impossible, and is now bearing down on him, the blood on his knife glinting darkly in the scant moonlight, and there's no time to do anything but react --

_\- his hand gripped a foreign throat, the heel of his palm digging into the oesophagus as he reached for the hunting knife in the back of his belt, the worn material of his army issue slacks stained with blood that seeped from the bunk above them --_

When he’d slid the imaginary blade into its final resting place, deep within the attacker's chest, it wasn’t his wife beneath him; his weight was bearing down on the lean, muscled limbs of a boy too young to be a soldier, too young to understand the cause he was fighting for.

He’d opened his eyes to her pleaded cries of _“Frank, you’re home! You’re back from the war; you’re home, Frank!_ ”

A week later, she’d collapsed and had to be taken to the hospital. Fingers wrapped tight in her hospital gown, her arms trembling, he’d watched her break apart when the doctors told her there was nothing they could do.

She hadn’t blamed him. Still didn't, to the best of his knowledge. Frank’s opinion differed; he blamed himself, and believed she should too.

They buried the twins in a small plot of land that had belonged to Maria’s father, on a small hill with a view of the ocean.


	3. bullets hurt less

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She waits until he’s placed his order and the waitress has left before she says, “you were the one that killed Hecky Nash.”_  
>     
>  _There’s no sign of uncertainty in her voice. Karen Page was a journalist for one of the most prestigious papers in the city and more than capable of holding her own as one of the leading figures in her field. It was only a matter of time before she figured it out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously posted on my tumblr; more of this AU exists, and will eventually see the light of day, I promise.

She’s waiting for him when he arrives at the small café down the street from the precinct, still dressed in her work attire and the very picture of professionalism with her hair tied up and her briefcase folded neatly on the seat beside her.

It’s unusual for them to meet like this, way out in the open, and it’s purposeful, he thinks, as he takes the seat across from her. The small café is crowded in the middle of the day, and the booth she’s chosen, while a fair distance from any listening ears, is highly visible, nestled by the window in the corner – whatever this was about, she wanted to discuss it in public, somewhere with witnesses and bodies in case things turned sour.

The sense of unease that’s been prickling at the back of his neck since he received her message the day before grows. His trigger finger taps an anxious rhythm against the edge of the table. Shit.

She waits until he’s placed his order and the waitress has left before she says, “you were the one that killed Hecky Nash.”

There’s no sign of uncertainty in her voice. Karen Page was a journalist for one of the most prestigious papers in the city and more than capable of holding her own as one of the leading figures in her field. It was only a matter of time before she figured it out.

“Yeah.”

She’s looking at him as if she doesn’t know him, as if she doesn’t recognise the man he’s become, and maybe she’s right. With the events of the last year, and the things that he’s done - sometimes he thinks he doesn’t even recognise himself anymore.

“He wasn’t a criminal, Frank.” Her voice breaks, and for the first time since he’s known her, her front of calm professionalism cracks. There are shadows under her eyes, pale purple bruises that speak of nights of lost sleep, and he wonders how long she’s known, how long she’s waited to confront him about this.

He leans towards her and freezes when he sees her flinch, sees her hand twitch towards her purse and the small pistol hidden between her compact and pocketbook – and he feels it like it was a physical thing, like she’d reached across the table to strike him across the face.

Whatever comradery they’d shared over the past few weeks, whatever trust had built between them, was gone.

“He had it coming. Believe me when I say he had it coming.” He doesn’t know what he’s trying to prove here – he has no excuses for his actions, and he didn’t need one: he did what needed to be done, and if presented with a similar choice, he’d do it again, in a heartbeat.

“I just- I don’t understand, Frank.” Her breath is coming in small bursts, red blotches rising high on her cheeks and the tightening feeling within his chest squeezes until he feels sick with it. “You were a decorated marine. You swore an oath to protect the people of this city. Does that mean nothing to you?”

“Ma’am-” he tries, but she cuts him off with a shake of her head.

“I came here today to tell you that this – whatever it is - is over. We’re done.”

Her hands are shaking as she collects her purse and gets to her feet, her eyes averted, purposefully not looking at him, and he watches, paralysed in his seat, as she makes her way out of the café.


End file.
